This page will be the most difficult task for which I will ever have the pleasure, discomfort, and absolute terror to attempt to write. Silence that surrounds my head circles faster than before, much denser and more difficult for any of my thoughts, ideas, goals, fears, even innocent plagiarism to meet the physical representation of one of my deepest desires. I have precisely and ambiguous view on what the days and years to come will define me as, and if I were back in kindergarden, I would say 'I don't know who I am going to be." What might be more satisfying that me finally taking the initiative to scare the hell out of myself by sitting down and writing is the foresight into how bad this entire entry will be, and how, for some reason, that is alright with me. I have never edited one of my thoughts in my full existence, and truly do not know what it means to "think." I simply have not done it yet. This is my invitation to think. I hope I accept.
If I am ever to be a story teller, I need something to tell a story about. Usually those stories have a character. The only person I know is myself, so I pick him.
I don't know you, but I am terrified of boring you. I want to take advice from one of my closest friends, I think, and start as close to the end of the story as I possibly can. I would like to start my narration on the day I figured out my life, and I'll end there too.
The other day, Paul painted a picture of a woman in art class, and nobody got it. When Paul showed it to his art teacher, she asked why Paul would ever paint a picture of woman who had recently been divorced. When Paul's classmates saw it, they asked why he had drawn a picture of someone who had just murdered someone and then farted. Kids on the bus home said that Paul like to paint mature porn stars after a long day of shooting. Paul's next door neighbor, Roger, told him nice photograph, but wanted to know when he had bought a camera. His father pretended to ignore the painting. His mother asked him if he were depressed. His sister laughed and said he was a "famshed", whatever that means.
If I am ever to be a story teller, I need something to tell a story about. Usually those stories have a character. The only person I know is myself, so I pick him.
I don't know you, but I am terrified of boring you. I want to take advice from one of my closest friends, I think, and start as close to the end of the story as I possibly can. I would like to start my narration on the day I figured out my life, and I'll end there too.
The other day, Paul painted a picture of a woman in art class, and nobody got it. When Paul showed it to his art teacher, she asked why Paul would ever paint a picture of woman who had recently been divorced. When Paul's classmates saw it, they asked why he had drawn a picture of someone who had just murdered someone and then farted. Kids on the bus home said that Paul like to paint mature porn stars after a long day of shooting. Paul's next door neighbor, Roger, told him nice photograph, but wanted to know when he had bought a camera. His father pretended to ignore the painting. His mother asked him if he were depressed. His sister laughed and said he was a "famshed", whatever that means.
